


Loot Crate

by WhoopsOK



Category: Leverage
Genre: Background Relationships, Dubious Consentacles, Egg Laying, Extremely Dubious Consent, Mpreg, Other, Other: See Story Notes, Oviposition, Psychic Bond, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Rape, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 21:26:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17332664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: There’s no pretense of masculinity or grace when an unidentified something launches itself out of a strange box in the forest; Hardison starts screaming, struggling backwards before something pins him down.(Hardison finds a box full of tentacles and finds himself full of eggs.)





	Loot Crate

**Author's Note:**

> Belated Kinktober Day 14: Asphyxiation, Distention, Tentacles
> 
> IMind the tags! See end notes for consent issues breakdown. I make no excuses!
> 
> Disclaimer: I have 0% of a clue how Munzee/geocaching _actually_ works irl.

This was a stupid choice and Hardison has nobody to blame but himself for getting talked into this shit.

See, it’s the age of the geek, man. It’s all about technology—the future is _silicon_ and not covered in dirt and leaves. Hardison’s extent of communing with nature should be limited to the rare excursion with Eliot and Netflix documentaries. They’re not taking any more fucking cases where people have gone missing in the woods, nope, no sir. Because _of course_ Hardison’s radio goes out, of course he gets separated from the group, _of course it’s about to get dark._ This is why nerds don’t fuck around in the woods, because now he’s living a Scooby Doo episode. Except he’s not a teen and doesn’t have a talking dog. _Oh shit,_ that means this is just a horror movie, and Hardison has seen enough horror movies to know this isn’t supposed to end well for him, he’s—

He’s face down in the dirt and his shin hurts.

Tripping and falling always means you’re going to _die,_ so for a moment Hardison is there expecting to get axed immediately. When nothing happens, he flails into action, spinning around to see what’s behind him.

There isn’t a crazed ax murderer, but there _is_ a box in the middle of the trail, nestled right behind a thick twist of roots so cleanly he hadn’t seen it coming.

The part of his brain that’s still online and working this case remembers that their client’s missing son and the mark had been into geocaching, had supposedly been hunting for a cache when things went sideways.

This… could be the cache? He thinks?

It’s a lot more ornate than he was expecting, considering it’s just out in the middle of the woods for anyone to find. Hardison had been expecting ammunition boxes or old mail boxes, but _this_ looks like an actual little treasure chest. The stereotypical kind with metal bindings and knobs, a rusted iron latch in the visage of a jolly roger.

Something says—very quietly, in a way that is more felt than heard—to open it.

Something else—see: all of Hardison’s good sense—screams at him _not_ to touch it, to get far the fuck away from it and pretend he never saw it and to never ever come out in the woods again and _Hardison doesn’t remember putting his hands on the latch._

“What the _fuck_ ,” Hardison exclaims, snatching his hands away from the dangling lock, for all the good it does him.

It’s got him by the wrist almost instantly, though _what_ exactly has him he isn’t sure.

There’s no pretense of masculinity or grace when an unidentified something launches itself out of a strange box in the forest; Hardison starts screaming, struggling backwards before something pins him down. Hardison can see green-brown branches with thick purple veins winding around his body, trapping him against the ground. Something pricks the back of his head before he feels like something tingling and cold rolls over the inside of his skull.

**_It’s ok, it’s ok, not hurt, not kill, please, please._ **

“Hooo my god, ok, _wait_ ,—” Hardison gasps because he’s _talking to a sentient treasure chest??_  “ _Wait,_ is this—is this—?”

**_Yes, yes, real, not hurt, promise. Help._ **

“Ok, ok, cool, cool, this is—” Hardison can’t help the nervous, unintelligible babbling that breaks apart his sentence when several of the tentacles creep under his shirt, ripping the seams out. “Can I help you with my _shirt on?_ ”

**_Still, quiet, not hurt, focus._ **

“Focus on _what?_ ” Hardison wheezes, jerking when the vines wind their way down his pants. “Oh _no, fuck you, stop, wait—_ ”

Struggling doesn’t get him anything but squeezed tighter, pushed further into the dirt. It seems like as soon as he thinks to move, there’s a vine there to restrain him, none of which he’s strong enough to twist away from. Trying with all his strength, he just winds up contorted half on his stomach, naked in the dirt with _something pressing against his asshole._

“Ok, no, no, listen, what do you need help with? Just tell me, I can help you,” Hardison pleads, digging his fingers in, trying to claw his way forward. Clenching gets him nowhere, the same cool tingling drools down his ass, leaves him loose enough for a tentacle to press its way in and in and in _and in and—_ “Please, I don’t even have— _oh_.”

The numbness in his head keeps him from completely blacking out with panic, but part of him wishes he could. People shouldn’t be able to feel their internal organs so distinctly, but Hardison _can._ The impossible pressure and tingling creeps up his ass, farther than he’s ever had fingers, cocks, or toys; up until it reaches his stomach like a cold burst of dread. Looking down, he sees his stomach bulging out, a tentacle writhing like a snake under his skin. He whines brokenly, hardly hearing it over the blood rushing in his ears.

Hardison can feel something coming up the back of his throat and he panics, feeling the urge to vomit, but nothing comes _up._ He’s allowed to get his hands under him as he starts retching, a thick tentacle presses over his tongue and out his mouth, he’s suffocating _._ He can’t get his hand to his face and he legitimately _can’t breathe_ and he’s terrified he’s going to die in a _fucking hentai_.

A moment later he feels something like realization, the faint idea of an apology as the tentacle deflates instantly leaving him free to squeak in a breath and promptly vomit between his hands. It retreats further down his throat to spare his gag reflex, another tentacle smoothing over the outside of his throat down to his chest. He spits, coughing and eyes watering. “ _Fuck_ ,” He rasps, choking on his own breath when the tentacle on his chest slides all the way down to fondle his dick. It’s slick and not particularly pleasant, but as soon as he has the thought, the appendage warms some, dripping with something sticky as it strokes and Hardison doesn’t actually want to feel good about this. This pretty much breaks the scale of fucked up shit that his happened to him, but he starts to get hard under the motions.

It in no way distracts from the sudden bulging sensation in his ass that leaves him spasming, whining as he tries to tense against it, only to go boneless. When it happens again, he realizes what the feeling reminds him up with a high pitched sound of alarm, clenching down. “Are you laying eggs in me? I’m not ready to be a fath—”

**_Peace, peace, not hurt, please, help. Look._ **

It doesn’t feel like he has much of a choice when he lowers his head to see his stomach, already bulging slightly with the two eggs sitting heavily in him.

**_Not hurt, not kill, please. Protect._ **

_Protect_ , it says and Hardison feels it coming from so many different directions, it doesn’t need explanation. It will protect him, it _wants_ to protect him, it wants to protect its babies, it wants Hardison to protect its babies, it’s _scared, it just wants them all to live._

…Hardison is so fucked up, this is not how the sci-fi heroes’ stories go. He blinks down at himself, feeling like he’s not even looking at his own body, isn’t sure what _he_ is anymore. He certainly doesn’t feel the same. “I don’t know how to do this.” _Help, help, help,_ he thinks desperately, to himself, to this _thing_ , to his team wherever they are, _help._

**_Peace._ **

It reaches around his stomach, rubbing him soothingly as one of its other appendages resumes stroking his arousal. Hardison shuts his eyes and—fuck, his life is already so goddamn weird—tries his best to relax. It shifts him away from his sick, loosens it’s hold on him now that he’s not actively fighting, but not by much, for which Hardison is pathetically grateful. He’s still terrified, but feeling open and exposed in the middle of the woods would be more than his forced calm could manage to hold. Feeling the line of his thoughts, a tentacle falls heavy and warm around the back of his neck, the end stroking up his face. He flinches when it presses at his mouth.

**_Not hurt, breathe._ **

Hardison lets it slide into his mouth, whatever it’s oozing tasting faintly salty on his tongue, like sea air. He sucks it, feeling it go straight to his head, mouth feeling cleaner than moments ago. It doesn’t force its way down his throat, resting thick on his tongue for him to groan around when another egg slips into him. Already feeling huge, Hardison spares a bleary thought to wonder how much he can take. Humans aren’t meant to have litters and all, but it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t feel like he’s breaking or tearing he’s just… _so full._ That earns him a ripple of pleasure down the back of his spine that he doesn’t think is entirely his, but doesn’t feel the need to examine to closely. He’s feeling floaty and nice, the panic he knows he should be feeling pushed aside for now.

The next egg takes some adjusting and that’s what winds up doing him in. It’s pushed up his ass like the others, but not all the way up, left sitting, pressing on _very_ familiar territory as a tentacle adjusts the clutch already in his stomach and Hardison jerks at the sensation, shivering at the constant pressure, _please._

Feeling his desperation, his spark of arousal, the slick tentacle around his dick picks up speed. The one in his ass goes still and _stiff_ , allowing him to clamp down once again, this time on the egg, shielded by the tentacle drooling with slick. Hardison can’t even keep himself upright as he shouts, coming in thick spurts onto the dirt beneath him, eyes rolling back, lungs seizing, he feels so full, so bright, so good—

Hardison comes to on his back, staring at the same hard rock he would guess he’s lying on. “ _Ugh…_ ” he says eloquently.

“Oh thank fuck,” a voice says, startles the shit out of him. But when he goes to sit up, it jostles his stomach uncomfortably and _oh shit._

Moving a little more gingerly, Hardison gets up onto his elbows and stares at himself for a solid five minutes before he can really, really register that he looks _pregnant._ “Wh—No, no, I—I thought…” _This can’t be real._

**_Real._ **

The thought startles him, too, as though he’d somehow thought that would go away. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” the voice says again and Hardison can finally turn to see.

The client’s missing son, Jack, looking dirty and tired, but otherwise unharmed. Besides being, oh yeah, _similarly naked and pregnant._

Hardison doesn’t even know where to start with this. “We been looking everywhere for you.”

Jack winces. “What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t go back like this, they’ll…” he draws his knees up even though his stomach is much too big to hide behind them. He wraps his arms around himself, “I don’t know what to do.”

What _are_ they supposed to do? Two guys stuffed full of some strange creatures eggs, naked and alone like the _worst_ sort of TV show. _What do they do?_

“I… I need to call my friends,” Hardison says calmly to the open air, even though his anxiety is off the fucking charts. “My _mates_. I can’t—” He has to swallow the catch in his voice, “I can’t do this without them. _We_ can’t do this without help. They won’t hurt us.”

There’s a pause before Hardison feels a pull internally, like he’s being led somewhere. He looks back at Jack who stands, too, nervously motions him on. As it turns out, walking through the dark doesn’t get less harrowing when carrying the knowledge and children of a new species, but he doesn’t trip a single time and nothing approaches them. He’s led back to his equipment, all of which appears to still have charge.

Dividing the tatters of his clothes between the two of them, he picks up his walky-talky and presses the button. “Guys?”

“ _Alec!!_ ” Parker answers instantly, to the sounds of something crashing in the background and Hardison is so relieved to hear her voice, tears spring to his eyes.

“Hey, babe.”

“ _Where the hell are you?_ ” Eliot shouts and Hardison knows him well enough to read the fear and relief under his anger.

Good question. Hardison goes fumbling for his GPS. “I don’t know. I’m sending you my location now, I—” He looks down at his stomach, has to squint through the dark to see Jack’s terrified and tired face. “We got a weird one here.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading…wishing you a year full of fun adventures and interesting treasure 
> 
> Consent issues: Basically, the tentacles don’t ask first. They turn out to be psychic-sentient and brokenly explain they don’t want to hurt Hardison. He then says it’s ok and agrees to help, but that’s only after the oviposit…oviposition(?) is in progress and he wasn’t given much choice.
> 
> As always, arousal is not a sign of consent, and consent is mandatory, but what you imagine being done to you in your own head is your business.
> 
> Also, yeah, I love John Mulaney: “Life is already so goddamn weird, this may as well happen.”


End file.
